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Abbreviated Epics - Third Flatiron Publishing

Editor's Note

by Juliana Rew

What is an epic? The dictionary defines it as a long poem, typically one derived from ancient oral tradition, narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures or the history of a nation. Third Flatiron's tenth quarterly anthology is a double issue, encompassing 19 very short stories on epical themes, such as swashbuckles and sorcery, alternate history and steampunk, megalomania, Frankenstein-type tales, and creation myths. As you might guess, it is a fantasy-heavy collection.

In reading submissions we were intrigued to receive a number of tales drawing upon Japanese and Chinese mythology. Our lead story, Blade Between Oni and Hare, by Siobhan Gallagher, brings a marvelous—and often strange to Western eyes— viewpoint to the idea of an epic struggle. Other notable tales with feminine heroines include Rain over Lesser Boso by Gustavo Bondoni, The Perfection of the Steam-Powered Armour by Adria Laycraft, and Qinggong Ji by Stephen D. Rogers. What could be more appropriate than a manga-style cover?

If Victorian and Napoleonic steampunk is more your cup of tea, you'll find some damn fine exemplars in Beyond the Turning Orrery by Deborah Walker and Through an Ocular, Darkly by Martin Clark. Daniel Coble rounds out this group with a tale about a lost Himalayan expedition, Assault on the Summit.

During my studies of medieval literature, I grew especially fond of the Norse sagas, both owing to their bloodthirsty, ambitious characters and strong moral content. We're happy to include Jordan Ashley Moore's A Wolf Is Made, and Steve Coate's Fortunate Son, passionate, and sometimes heartbreaking, stories inspired by the Viking civilization. And since epics by definition are poems, we've included a reprint of Odin on the Tree by poet/novelist Jo Walton.

Many writers are familiar with American mythologist Joseph Campbell's deconstruction of The Hero's Journey, which outlines the basic pattern of an epic. We were tickled to see satirical pieces by Elliotte Rusty Harold and Jake Teeny, Refusing the Call and Toward the Back. And Manuel Royal points out that sometimes the battle just goes Heart-Shaped.

Our flash humor offerings, The Committee, by Margarita Tenser, and Damfino Plays for Table Stakes by Ben Solomon, show us not to press our luck.

In The Lost Children, Alison McBain provides a disturbing new take on the ancient Greek myth of the Minotaur, while Patricia S. Bowne invents a shiny new myth in Great Light's Daughters.The Blue Cup, by Marissa James, asks whether it is possible to recapture a long-ago, magical time.

While we don't have room for sweeping histories like Dr. Zhivago, we call to your attention On a Train With a Coyote Ghost by Robin Wyatt Dunn and HMS Invisible and the Halifax Slaver by Iain Ishbel. These are affecting and luminous stories about the courage it takes to fight evil, fascism, and slavery.

Abbreviated Epics proudly showcases an international group of new and established speculative fiction authors, who share with us just a smidgen of the heroic and grand.

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*****~~~~~*****

Blade Between Oni and Hare

by Siobhan Gallagher

Three days. Three days on a damn dead squid. Sun crisping her exposed skin, while the rest of her was soaked to the bone; tired of looking at the endless ocean, tired of holding her katana over her head, tired of her growling stomach and thirsty throat. Damn, that umibōzu, had nothing better to do than to go ship-wrecking. Oh sure, the sailors whined and begged on the deck, while she had the brains to grab her things and jump off, before the umibōzu's snaky limbs came crashing down.

But it wasn't the umibōzu they had to worry about in the deep waters.

The ship's sinking had stirred creatures from the bottom of the ocean, and they bubbled up, mouths wide and full of razor teeth. Yet it was the squid's misfortune to pick on a samurai—well, a rogue samurai. Though she had to give credit to her chest-eye, which saw the squid underwater as clear as a sunny day on land. As far as Kazuko could tell, she was the only survivor.

The scar tissue around the fist-sized chest-eye scrunched up every time spray hit it; she felt the chest-eye strain its sight, searching for a speck of land. It was hopeless. She drained her gourd of its last drops (irritating her thirst more than satisfying it) and tossed it into the ocean. How long 'til dehydration fully set in, before she became delirious enough to drown herself?

The squid corpse dipped a little, jerked in a steady direction; something probably had snagged one of the tentacles. The eye withdrew deeper into her chest, like it had when the umibōzu attacked—which made her nervous. She didn't have the strength to fight off another abominable creature from the depths.

Kazuko clutched her katana, hands tense and wanting a fight. The jerking became a strong pull, waters swirling around her—a maelstrom! Sucked down, down into the whirlpool's mouth, spinning faster and faster, head-blind, nauseous. All she could do was dig her fingers into squid flesh, anchoring herself, and pray.

Though she knew the gods had abandoned her long ago, she had hoped that her end wouldn't be a watery grave.

The squid corpse rocked, lost momentum. Walls of water collapsed, briefly submerged her, spat her back onto the ocean surface. While her own eyes squeezed shut, the eye saw an island. The current pushed them toward it. An island populated by trees and scrubs, not a single hut on the coast.

As soon as Kazuko touched sand, she tumbled off and dry-heaved. She scraped soggy bangs out of her face and crawled up the beach to collapse on dry sand. No—she resisted rest—not yet. Her sword came first.

It took a full minute to stand; her legs badly wanted to give out. With all this vegetation, there had to be fresh water somewhere. The blade needed a good rinse before corrosion set in. She'd slept with a swordsmith, one of the best in Kyoto, and had threatened to tell his wife, to get this sword. Doubtful she could get away with that again—not with the eye, not now. So she had to take every care to maintain the blade.

She trudged into the thicket of trees, shade relieving her of the sun's harsh rays. Vines dripped from the branches, slick with sap and clung to her clothing. She ripped one from her shoulder, stirring the branches above. A series of snaps— sploosh! splattered onto her. A melon lay broken at her feet; bright orange on the outside, blood red on the inside.

What kind of melon was this? And for that matter, when did melons grow on trees?

Black seeds squirmed in the pulp. Her stomach clenched. She didn't trust her food unless it was dead still. She kicked the shards aside and moved on, listening for the trickle of water.

A stream was nearby, small, shallow, crowded by grass. The stones of the streambed appeared too perfectly set, as though arranged that way. But she pushed the idea away, unsheathed her katana, and rinsed it. She used a fistful of grass to wipe it dry, then repeated the process with the kaiken hidden in the sash of her kimono jacket.

She took a long gulp—oh, so sweet on her parched throat!—before exhaustion finally took her.

…

Rustling, soft paws, a flash of white.

The eye swiveled, lens stretched wide. A white hare was digging a mere two steps from her unconscious body. Her brain lurched out of slumber; her limbs were heavy, slow to move. The hare was still there, still digging. First the odd melon fruit, now a white hare?

Her stomach groaned, and suddenly, the color wasn't important. Only what it might taste like.

She lunged for the hare; it dashed out of reach by a fraction of a second. It hopped ahead, but not out of sight, as though waiting for her. Leading her.

Her hunger-addled mind spurred her into a chase. She threw whatever rocks came to hand, found a stick long enough to stab with, but even with the eye's precision, she couldn't land a killing blow. It was like the damn thing could predict her movements. And even when she stumbled, it would always wait for her to catch up.

Something wasn't right.

The hare ran straight into a cave. Ha, it was trapped! It was a dumb little animal, after all.

The eye didn't see anything within the cave's pitch blackness, so she entered, scraping through the narrow passage. Gooey threads slapped her face. She tore the goo away, found it wrapped around her hands. Eck! If she didn't know better, she'd say it was—

Chit, chit, chit.

Everything in her tensed. The chit came from above. From outside, the cave hadn't appeared large, but now the roof seemed high above the narrow space. Feeling less bold without her sword in her hand, she backed out.

The wind was knocked from her, followed by a high-pitched hiss. Movement in the dark, the eye only catching outlines. A giant spider leg impaled the ground, barely missing her foot. Another swipe, and its leg bristles snagged on her clothing. She wrenched away, tumbling over herself and into the sunlight. She scooted back, away from the cave's mouth. She glimpsed a silhouette—a human head and torso stuck onto a spider's thorax. It withdrew into the cave, out of sight.

Amaterasu's light, what was that?

Kazuko ripped the spider web from her hands—and was that. . . her throat tightened—blood? She picked at her trousers. No, just dried melon pulp. She flopped back, sighing. Stupid, to venture where she couldn't use her sword.

To add insult to injury, the white hare hopped out of the cave as if nothing was amiss.

…

Too tired to go hunting for a nuisance of a hare, Kazuko settled for the odd melon. It was that, or three-day-dead squid. She made a fire for the coming night, though it took a lot of kindling for the wood to finally catch. Strange wood, too. It burned more like coal and smelled of cherries and spices from foreign lands. She scraped the seeds into the fire, took a bite of melon. Watery, but not much flavor.

The hare was still there, watching her, just inside the eye's field of view. She tried not to think about it, the furry bastard. Though she would love to see it roasting on a spit.

…

In the morning, she set about collecting branches for a raft. The hare was of course there, keeping its distance.

It won't work, said a chirpy voice.

She nearly dropped her bundle, looked around for the source.

Here, down here. I believe you wanted to eat me yesterday. The hare hopped onto a boulder, to make itself more apparent.

Dammit, she knew there was something wrong with that melon. Should've never eaten it.

Kazuko took an old log and marched with it toward the sea, with the hare following. At the beach, she tossed it into the waves—and watched it sink like a stone.

The wood is much too dense, the hare explained.

She bit back a few choice words for the hare. Fine. Then how am I supposed to get off this island?

The hare moved close to the water, just out of reach of the waves, and thumped one hind leg on the sand. Awfully loud, coming from such a small creature. Moments later a scaly log popped up in the water—no wait, it was a crocodile.

I'm friends with the crocodile, the hare said. I can summon many to give you passage to the mainland.

There was something unsaid in the hare's words. Guardian or not, everyone had a price.

What do you want in return?

The hare looked up at her, nose twitching. "You have the reflexes of a warrior. So, warrior, I ask this favor: kill the oni."

"I haven't seen an oni here."

Not yet. But I assure you he exists, in the deepest part of the island. He is a plague, and he is ruining the peace of this place.

She folded her arms, glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the cave. I would think you'd rather have that spider-creature removed.

"No! Do not touch Shukujo Jorōgumo, she's of no importance to you. Kill the oni, and nothing more."

Excellent! The hare returned to its unruffled state. I'll show you the way.

…

They walked along the stream as it wound into the heart of the island. The stream widened in areas where the earth was barren, uprooted trees leaving deep depressions.

A crash, followed by a thunderous thump. Both Kazuko and the hare hid behind a large boulder. She put a hand on the hilt of her sword, peeked over the boulder. A red-skinned oni, twice the size of a hut, carried an armful of stones and dumped them by the stream. He plopped down, shaking the surrounding trees, and started arranging the stones.

Doesn't look like a plague to me, Kazuko whispered.

Well he is! the hare squeaked. And if you don't kill him, you'll never get off this island.

There the hare went, getting all huffy puffy again. She gave him a sardonic smile. I said I would do it. Don't worry.

…

Admittedly slaying oni wasn't her specialty, but that just meant she had to get creative. Kazuko chopped down lengths of vines, tied the ends around adjacent trees. The hare had hopped away, not interested in how she handled the oni, only that she did it.

With the brush hiding the traps, all she needed was the oni's attention.